


You Put Me Up Against A Wall

by AetherSeer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Drunken Flirting, M/M, Oral Sex, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 05:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Tom can still feel the phantom sensation of V's thighs, and the way V had trusted Tom to hold his entire not-insignificant weight up, V’s head tucked into Tom’s neck.It’s distracting, to say the least.





	You Put Me Up Against A Wall

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was pretty much entire inspired by this gif series: https://thiccthighsmurdereyes.tumblr.com/post/185788922066/faceoffs-stanley-cup-winning-hugs-all-around

Tom’s pretty fucking sure V is completely trashed. Like, beyond trashed. Dancing on tables, stealing fans’ jerseys, getting a Cup tattoo and _ crying on the table _ trashed. Blitzed out of his _ mind. _

And it’s not like Tom’s exactly sober, either, to be perfectly fair. He’s had more than his fair share of beers, and Tom’s pretty sure that he didn’t even get this drunk down in Cabo with his boys, because Tom’s no lightweight, but he’s staggering down the hallway with V half-plastered to his side, and Tom’s doesn’t actually know where they are at the moment—oh, that’s his apartment door. Apparently they’re going to Tom’s tonight. And V’s sleeping over.

He has the key somewhere in his pocket. Tom pats down his pockets, dragging out his keyring and not dropping his wallet in the process, and V’s … mouthing at Tom’s bicep, okay.

Tom’s hands are clumsy on the door handle, key slipping against the cool metal. V’s not helping whatsoever, drunkenly giggling into Tom’s beer-soaked shirt and rubbing his cheek against Tom’s shoulder.

V stumbles as Tom finally gets the door unlocked and swings it open, landing hard against Tom’s side and knocking _ Tom _ against the doorframe. His shoulder takes the brunt of the blow, but fuck, V’s _ heavy. _ And apparently completely uncoordinated.

“Dude, you’re a mess,” Tom mutters.

“_You’re _ a mess,” V slurs back, managing to get his eyes focused on Tom’s collarbone. To be fair, Tom’s collarbone is at V’s eye-level. “A _ hot _ mess.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Tom says helplessly, because it _ is _ a compliment, and V’s drunk enough that it’s completely sincere.

Tom leans down, gets a shoulder beneath V’s armpit, and attempts to drag them over the threshold into the apartment proper. V … is absolutely no help whatsoever, sagging into Tom and making Tom take his full weight.

“C’mon, bud,” Tom tries. “Help me out here. Let’s get inside and we can sleep, yeah?”

“Dun wanna sleep,” V whines into Tom’s ear.

Tom doesn’t have a ton of options, here. He pulls an uncooperative V into the apartment by the waist, kicking the door shut with a bang that makes him wince and make a mental note to apologize to Mrs. Lambard down the hall tomorrow. When he sobers up.

V’s giggling again, face smushed into Tom’s shoulder and his entire body pressed up against Tom’s chest. Tom can feel the uneven puffs of damp air against his collarbone where the neck of his shirt’s been tugged down. He must imagine the soft press of lips to his skin before V tips forward even more, knees buckling. Tom catches him around the waist, back fetching up _ hard _ against the wall, and this is just ridiculous.

“V, Jakub, c’mon. Just a couple of steps and you can crash on the couch.”

V slurs out a flurry of Czech.

“English, dude. I don’t speak Czech, you know that.”

“Carry me.” And, well, it’s at least English.

Tom sighs. Carrying his drunken teammate’s probably going to be easier than trying to drag an uncooperative, 200-pound hockey player to the couch, though.

Tom gets an arm under V’s ass—thank you, hockey, for building a good handhold—and hoists (through the knees, through the _ knees_). V wraps his arms around Tom’s neck, nose bumping beneath Tom’s ear. “Knew you could lif’ me,” he says.

Lift, yeah, sure. Tom can lift 200 pounds any fucking day of the week. But carrying a sloshed teammate while definitely not sober himself, that’s another ask entirely.

Tom prays that Stevie was a good roommate and cleared the floor of anything on the way to the couch, because Tom literally cannot see his feet right now, and his balance is _ shot. _

Tom’s hip hits the arm of the couch, V dead weight in his arms, and they tumble down onto the cushions. V makes a pained sound beneath him, and Tom squeezes a hand down to push himself back up. “Sorry, sorry.”

V rolls over and presses his cheek to the cushion, yawning. Tom levers himself up and off, tossing the throw blanket over V’s shoulders and stumbling back to his bedroom.

He doesn’t even get his jeans off before he’s asleep.

Tom wakes up to someone clattering around in the kitchen rather than to his alarm. He opens his eyes and immediately slams them shut. His bedroom is far too bright, and his head throbs.

The noise in the kitchen lessens a little bit, cupboards no longer slamming shut, and that is definitely the familiar sound of someone whisking eggs, which means Stevie did get home at some point. And apparently without the kind of hangover that Tom’s suffering under, too, if he’s in a state to make breakfast.

Tom squeezes an eye open and gropes for his nightstand drawer. The Advil bottle’s still in there, and there’s enough flat, warm Gatorade left in the bottle on his nightstand to help wash down the pills.

Tom lies still for a few minutes more, hoping fast-acting means instantaneous.

It doesn’t, but Tom _ is _ more awake now. Awake enough to glance around his room and cringe at the state of it, at least. He really should do something about that.

Stevie looks up when Tom slouches into the kitchen, dumping way too many empty water and Gatorade bottles into the recycling bin before slumping onto a bar stool. “You’re awake,” Stevie says, apparently surprised.

“When’d you get ho—” Tom yawns, jaw cracking. “Home?”

“I slept over at Tasha’s,” is Stevie’s easy answer. “She had to do things this morning, so she kicked me out.” He doesn’t seem too bothered about his girlfriend kicking him out early in the morning, but he’s also rocking a monster of a hickey that he probably doesn’t even know about, so Tom’s pretty sure Stevie had a good night.

“Peppers or mushrooms?”

“Peppers, thanks.”

Tom’s just dug into his very fluffy, cheesy omelet when he remembers their houseguest. “Er, Stevie, you know V’s here, right?”

Stevie takes a bite of his own omelet and inclines his head to where he’s set out a tall glass of water and a third plate. Okay, so apparently that’s a yes. Stevie finishes chewing. “Kinda hard to miss the snoring lump on the couch, under my favorite blanket.”

Said snoring lump, when Tom leans back on his stool to get a better look, has managed to kick off his shoes and sprawl over the entire couch, blanket tangled between his legs and tucked over one shoulder. V’s new tattoo is clearly visible on his dangling wrist, cellophane wrapping catching the morning light.

Stevie just shrugs when Tom looks back at him. “You’re the one who brought him home.”

And, well, there’s no arguing with that.

The problem is, Tom reflects the next day, squinting against the bright sun even beneath his sunglasses, now that Tom’s picked V up once, he keeps trying to get Tom to do it again. V’s barely any more sober during the parade—none of them really are—and he keeps _ pawing _ at Tom.

Onstage, he practically throws himself at Tom—Tom catches him, because he’s not about to _ drop _ V on his ass in front of the entire fucking city, thank you very much—and koala-clings. If Tom hadn’t been just drunk enough to almost tip them both over, Tom’s pretty sure V would’ve just kept his thighs wrapped around Tom’s hips for the rest of the night.

As-is, Tom can still feel the phantom sensation of said thighs, and the way V had trusted Tom to hold his entire not-insignificant weight up, V’s head tucked into Tom’s neck.

It’s distracting, to say the least.

And now V’s tucked himself up under Tom’s arm, Instagram story safely finished and V’s phone put away for the night. The party’s winding down, at least a little bit, and Tom’s personally eyeing Devo’s pasta because damn, that’s a good idea right now. Carbs and a fuckton of water to hopefully get rid of some of the inevitable hangover.

Tom leans over to snag a bottle of water, and V grumps at him. “C’mon, buddy,” Tom says. “You should probably have some too.”

He grabs a second bottle for V, and hands it to him before realizing that he has to actually let go of V to crack open the seal. _ That _ gets an even unhappier noise, and V practically crawling into Tom’s lap in response.

“Uh.”

V settles with his arms looped loosely around Tom’s neck, cheek pillowed in the dip of Tom’s collarbone. Tom takes a sip of water, and then chugs the rest of it when his body decides yep, hydration is good. His free hand lands on V’s hip, kneading at the waistband of his shorts.

V squirms on Tom’s lap.

“Hey, drink your water, buddy,” Tom warns. If V wants to sit on Tom’s lap—his thighs are totally gonna go numb—that’s fine, but he really should drink the water and sober up at least a little bit.

V’s hands slip a little bit, but he manages to get the bottle open and down half of it in one go. There’s a little bit that dribbles down his chin, and Tom’s … okay, Tom’s tempted, but he lets V be the one to wipe it away with the back of his hand before nudging his head back under Tom’s chin, arms now looped around Tom’s torso in a facsimile of a hug.

V murmurs something into Tom’s clavicle that Tom doesn’t catch, and squirms again on Tom’s lap, thighs visibly bunching beneath the material of his shorts.

“Didn’t catch that, buddy,” Tom says, absently trying to see how many of his teammates are still in the room, eating or milling about or—he thinks Conno might actually be sleeping, honestly, head tipped back and mouth slightly open, slumped in his chair in the corner.

V raises his head just slightly, enough for Tom to hear “Y’ever fuck someone against a wall?” _ loud and clear. _

_ What. _ “V—”

“Jakub.”

Which, okay, still not exactly what Tom was expecting to hear come out of his teammate’s mouth, drunk or not. “Jakub, I—why?”

Jakub shifts his weight, which, ow, Tom’s legs are now officially numb and that’s a helluva pins-and-needles painful tingling going through them right now. But Tom’s automatically gripped Jakub’s hip harder, his other hand landing high on Jakub’s thigh to keep him steady.

Tom looks down instinctively, making sure they’re all set and steady, and—oh. “V?”

Jakub’s nose is one of his defining features, and right now it’s nudging up against the joint of Tom’s jaw, Jakub’s lips just brushing where Tom’s beard ends. “Bet you could,” he says. Could— “Bet you could pin me to the wall, hold me up, give it to me good,” Jakub continues. “Y’re big enough. And so’s your dick.” Jakub breaks off into little giggles there, while Tom’s still staring over his head at nothing, frozen in place.

Tom’s now keenly aware of just how close Jakub’s pressed to him, ass and thighs planted firmly over Tom’s lap, chest half-swiveled to turn Jakub’s entire body into Tom’s. “V …”

“C’mon, Tommy,” Jakub wheedles, eyes bright and finally clear of some of the alcohol haze. “I’m sober. I know what I’m asking.”

“You’re half-sober,” Tom corrects. But he can’t deny that Jakub’s definitely aware enough to know what he’s asking. Or that Tom’s interested.

“Not here,” Tom finally allows. Because there’s no way Tom’s going to fuck anyone outside the privacy of his own home, not even after winning the Cup. For one, even if their teammates are plastered, he’ll never hear the end of it if someone catches them.

Jakub plants a wet kiss to Tom’s jaw. “Your place or mine?”

“You live with two people. Mine’s closer, anyway.” Tom attempts to get at his phone, but Jakub’s ass is definitely holding up the process. “V, you gotta let me text Stevie, let him know he’s staying at Tasha’s.”

Jakub obligingly gets a leg to the floor and lifts up just enough to let Tom wiggle a hand into his pocket for his phone.

Tom thumbs out a quick text; Stevie can probably interpret it, misspellings being what they are. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and pushes Jakub up so Tom can stand with him. Jakub ducks under Tom’s arm again, just short enough that Tom’s hand wraps neatly around his shoulders and Jakub’s own slinks around Tom’s waist.

Jakub’s fingers dip beneath Tom’s waistband and Tom chokes a little on his tongue. Okay, time to move, before that public sex thing actually happens.

This time, when Jakub knocks Tom against the doorframe of his apartment, there’s a lot more tongue involved. And Jakub’s hands are busy, too, rucking up Tom’s shirt, figuring out the buttons and zipper of Tom’s shorts.

Tom gropes for the door handle, slams the door shut—sorry, Mrs. Lambard—and pivots to push Jakub up against the hallway wall. Jakub moans into the kiss, his hands slipping under Tom’s shirt to feel up Tom’s abs. “C’mon,” Jakub pants. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.”

Tom shudders and presses Jakub back with a hand on his shoulder and another at his waist. “Wait, wait. Condoms are in my bedroom.”

Jakub offers him a grin, eyes creasing. “Okay.”

Tom can’t help it. He leans in and catches Jakub’s mouth with his own in yet another kiss, stroking fingertips over the smooth skin of Jakub’s waist. Jakub shivers beneath him, eyes closing. Tom bites Jakub’s lower lip gently, testing. Jakub makes a tiny protesting noise when Tom breaks the kiss this time.

Tom strips off his shirt as soon as they get through the door, turning to see Jakub doing the same. And that’s a lot of revealed skin that Tom wants to get his hands—and mouth—on. And, well, there isn’t anything stopping him from doing so, especially when Jakub arches into Tom’s touch so eagerly.

Tom gets Jakub’s own shorts unbuttoned, and Jakub helpfully steps out of them and his shoes at the same time, leaving him in socks and briefs, standing in Tom’s bedroom. Tom toes off his own shoes, bending down to strip off his socks, which leaves him eye-level with the inviting bulge in Jakub’s briefs. Tom cuts a glance upward just in time to see Jakub lick his lips.

But a blowjob isn’t what Jakub’s asked for, so Tom gets back with the program, dropping his shorts and boxers in a puddle on the floor and backing Jakub up against the wall, conveniently within reach of the dresser drawer where Tom keeps the lube.

Not that Tom had planned that, at all.

Jakub’s so, so hard in his briefs, and Tom definitely gropes him a few times as they make out, hands running over bared skin and ropey muscle, leaner from the long season. Jakub’s hands don’t stay still, either, skimming over Tom’s shoulders and back, then circling ‘round to card through Tom’s chest hair, grown out for playoffs. Tom still isn’t used to the sensation, though, and shivers when Jakub’s callouses catch and pull.

“Thought you gonna fuck me,” Jakub challenges when they separate for a breath or three.

Tom snorts. “Get naked, and maybe I will,” he shoots back.

Jakub hooks his fingers in his briefs and waits a beat. It’s hot as hell, watching him, Tom thinks. Jakub’s built stocky, muscle and curve and smooth skin everywhere you look. Even Tom’s hands don’t come close to being able to fit around his waist, and his briefs are looking strained.

And when Jakub rolls them down his thighs, Tom has permission to look his fill. Jakub’s dick is thick like the rest of him, curving a little to the left as it bobs back up to smack against his abs. Tom licks his own lips this time, and yanks the dresser drawer open a little harder than necessary.

The condom goes on smoothly, for once, and Tom gives himself a little squeeze to keep everything under control while he stares at the show in front of him. Jakub kicks his underwear toward the pile of discarded clothes and gives Tom what Tom hopes is an approving onceover before pretty much draping himself against the wall to wait.

The lube is thankfully right there, and Tom manages to fumble it out to where it’s within easy reach before he steps forward and bends his knees to hook his arms around Jakub’s hips and _ lift. _ Jakub yelps, hands scrabbling at Tom’s back, and eventually getting a solid hold on Tom’s shoulders just as Tom get Jakub’s back up against the wall, thighs wrapped tightly around Tom’s waist.

Jakub whines when the new position puts his throat at mouth-height and Tom sets to work worrying a bruise into that pale, inviting skin. “Last chance,” Tom mutters against the column of Jakub’s throat. “Tell me you don’t want this, and we stop.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Jakub orders.

Tom gets an arm beneath Jakub’s thighs, hoisting him just a bit higher, and braces them both before reaching out to get a pump of the lube smeared on his fingers. Jakub’s nails, short as they are, still leave trails of pain-bright sensation when he rakes them down Tom’s back as Tom sinks his fingers in, Jakub's balls warm against his wrist.

“More,” Jakub demands.

Tom spreads his fingers inside Jakub’s body, tests the muscle’s give with a third. Jakub shudders hard, thighs squeezing around Tom’s ribs. Tom swears he hears his ribs creak under the pressure. Jakub’s nails dig into the meat of Tom’s shoulders even as Tom’s fingers sink even deeper inside, Jakub’s body making room for Tom to probe and open up a little more space.

Jakub’s nails dig in deeper, and Tom hisses, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on Jakub’s thigh. “Ow,” Tom says, but the pain’s already fading. Tom gets himself lined up, the head of his cock flirting with Jakub’s hole, and then lets Jakub slip down just enough to get the tip inside.

Jakub makes a little punched-out noise and turns his head, catching Tom in another kiss. Tom lets Jakub drop a little more, and Jakub groans into Tom’s mouth. He bites at Tom’s lower lip, teeth digging in and then releasing before he draws blood. “More,” he begs.

Tom nods, widens his stance, and braces them against the wall even as Jakub sinks lower on his cock, until Tom’s all the way inside Jakub’s more-than-welcoming body. Jakub lets out another noise, this one pleasured, and clenches around Tom hard enough for Tom to need a steadying breath.

“Move,” Jakub begs. “Please.”

And Tom’s never been one to ignore a lover’s requests, so he moves. He’s pretty sure Jakub’s prostate is getting good pressure by the way Jakub’s shuddering with every thrust, and also the way Jakub’s cock is leaking all over their stomachs, matting Tom’s belly hair with slick precum.

Jakub’s eyes are squeezed shut. Tom’s pretty sure Jakub has no idea he’s letting out little groans and “uh, uh, uhs” with every thrust, and—

Tom doesn’t have a free hand to get around Jakub’s cock. If he lets go of either Jakub or the wall, they’re going to end up on the floor. And with the way things are going right now, with Jakub clenching down the way he is, this is going to be over way too fast for Tom to be a considerate lover and get Jakub off first.

What Tom does have, however, is the ability to lean in and let Jakub rub off against Tom’s abdomen. Which, when Jakub’s response is to groan and pant open-mouthed against Tom’s neck, seems to be working for him.

It still doesn’t mean that Jakub gets off first, though, because Tom finds himself driving deeper, hoping that his bedroom wall will hold the weight of two hockey players as he comes with a shout. Jakub clings tightly to Tom’s shoulders as Tom’s hips work, wringing out the last of his orgasm, and trying not to let his shaking limbs drop them both to the floor.

Tom’s softening cock’s still inside Jakub when he refocuses enough to pay attention to Jakub’s aborted rocking movements against Tom’s abs, constrained as he is by his complete lack of leverage.

Tom takes a deep breath, gets both hands back beneath Jakub’s thighs, and takes three steps. His cock slips out of Jakub, Jakub lands on the bed, and Tom does his best to smoothly strip and dispose of the condom in the bedside wastebasket before he crawls between Jakub’s legs.

“O-Oh,” Jakub breathes, watching wide-eyed as Tom sizes up his cock. 

Tom reaches over to the nightstand and snags another condom, rolling it onto Jakub’s cock. Jakub’s breath hitches. Tom flicks him a cocky grin and works his lips down around Jakub’s width, wrinkling his nose when the mixed flavors of fake strawberry and latex hit his tongue.

Jakub groans and throws an arm up over his eyes, though, so Tom’s happy to keep going, wrapping his fingers around the bit of Jakub’s cock that won’t fit in Tom’s mouth.

Tom keeps a fairly even rhythm, doing his best to coordinate his movements, and is rewarded with the sight of Jakub’s muscles flexing and contracting as his toes curl (presumably) and his thighs tighten (definitely, considering they’re just about constricting Tom’s ability to breathe) as Jakub approaches orgasm.

Jakub’s hips jerk; Tom chokes a little bit as Jakub’s cock hit the back of his throat; and Jakub’s entire body tenses for a long, drawn-out moment. Tom pulls his face back, but keeps moving his hand until Jakub bats him away weakly. “Too much, too much.”

Tom would move while Jakub recovers, but Jakub’s thighs make for quite the restraint, pinning Tom where he is, flat on his belly in his own bed. Eventually, Jakub’s breathing steadies, and he seems to realize this, uncrossing his ankles from around Tom’s back and reaching down to dispose of the condom.

Tom props himself up on his elbows. “Cuddles first, or cleanup?”

Jakub just makes a grabby-hands gesture, which Tom takes as permission to scoot up and spoon him, slotting himself comfortably against the generous curve of Jakub’s back. Jakub sighs and relaxes back into Tom’s chest. “Knew you’d be good at that,” he says around an enormous yawn.

Tom presses a kiss to Jakub’s sweaty hair. “Uh huh. Sure, buddy. You just liked me doing all the work.”

Jakub just pats the back of Tom’s hand and promptly passes the fuck out, which sounds like a pretty good idea given it’s like, 1 a.m. Tom looks at the clock, looks down at his now-snoring teammate, shrugs, and snuggles in.

He’ll figure out what to tell Stevie in the morning.


End file.
